The Malacia Tapestry (22 page)

‘Perian, I'm going down to her before another rival appears!' said Caylus. He sprawled at the casement regarding me, smiling as he pulled at his little beard. ‘I declare I'm out of my mind about her already!' He patted his codpiece to show where he kept his mind.

‘Caylus –' I wished to tell him that my feelings warned me the girl was somehow dangerous; yet why should my distrust of her be important to him? And what had I against her, save that she allowed herself in sunlight with a painted face, and smelt like Armida? He misinterpreted my hesitation.

‘Don't say it! Let me leave you alone with your art! You're going to visit your father in any case …'

Still smiling, he turned and commenced down the stairs, thumbs in pockets. As he went, he called over one shoulder, ‘I'll be in my rooms for a siesta this afternoon. Come along if you care to, and we'll play some cards – unless I have good fortune at this other game!'

For a while I stood at the top of the stairs and chewed my lip.

Glancing out of the window, I saw the woman with the mandoline turn to watch Caylus approach, although he was concealed from my view. I noted again her brazen glance and her fingers on the plectrum. Then I also went downstairs and out at the opposite door without a backward look.

There were worse things to do than see my father.

Beyond the grounds of the Renardo palace the grand avenue with its acacias petered out in a maze of alleys, through which I picked my course. At this hour of morning there were few people about, though women could be glimpsed working in the rooms close on either side. From the nearby canalside I heard a barrel-organ; the tune it played, ‘This Sweet Perspective', was one familiar to me from childhood.

I came on a wider avenue. Beyond it was the street of the goldsmiths. At the far end my father's house stood behind tall tiled walls.

Beppolo, our old servant, eventually let me in and closed the creaking gates. Doves took wing and clattered away to the streets. Familiar scents surrounded me. I walked through the side courtyard, cool in shadow, noticing how overgrown it had become, and how shaggy were the bushes of laurel on either hand, which had once been so neatly clipped. The stable was deserted; no hounds frisked as in bygone years. Our carriage had long been sold. Those few windows of the house which were not shuttered looked down expressionlessly.

At the other end of the court the green door stood open. I went through it, to be enfolded by the silence of the house. I looked in at what we had called the Garden Room as I passed; the light through the jalousie revealed it only in monochrome, its informal furniture pushed to one side, neglected.

My father would be in his study at this hour – or at any other hour, for that matter. I hesitated before his door, studying the cabalistic signs painted on its panels, listening for sounds from within. I fingered my amulet. Then I tapped and entered.

So recently had I come from the sunlit outside world that I failed to see the figure standing in the shadow of an alcove, poring over a manuscript. He turned slowly and raptly, and I made out the lineaments of my father. Negotiating a way across the lumbered room, I took his hand in my hands.

‘It's a long time since you came to see me, my boy. It's so dark in here! Didn't you know I have been unwell with the colic?'

‘I had your note, father, and came as soon as I could manage. Did Katarina visit you? Are you better now?'

‘If it isn't the colic, it's the stone. If it isn't the stone, it's the spleen, or the ague. You know I am never better. Your sister rarely bothers to come round here. I can eat nothing. At least I am not afflicted by the plague, which I hear gathers strength in the markets. Why don't the Ottomans go away? Malacia has its share of earthly woes, to be sure.'

‘Why complain? Plague's always about – it is part of life, just as darkness seems part of yours. Caylus tells me there are reports of the Turks leaving. Let me open a shutter! How can you see to read in this twilight?'

He went before me, spreading his hands to bar my way.

‘Whether horse-flesh doesn't spread the plague is a question some scholar should look into. How can I think when the light is hurting my eyes? What does that good-for-nothing Caylus know about military matters? And what's all this about the Turks? Why aren't you working? Idleness spells mischief always.'

‘I have worked all morning, Father. And Caylus is well connected.'

‘And what have you to show for it? So you came as soon as you could, did you?… Katie did stick her head in here once – without her fly-by-night husband, naturally. Do you know what I have found out this very morning?' He extended an arm with one grand, faltering gesture towards his shelves and the folios of Pythagoras, Solomon and Hermes lying open there, together with many ancient histories in an ancient heap. ‘I have at last discovered what a
maati
is composed of, beloved by Philip of Macedon.'

‘Father, leave your books! Let's go to eat together at Truna's as we used to do – you look starved. I'll call a litter for you from the square.' As he leaned against his table by the window, I noticed with sorrow how thin he had become. He needed meat.

‘Do you attend me? A
maati
is not just any delicacy but a specific one, first introduced into Athens at the time of the Macedonian Empire. Besides, you can't afford a litter. Philip was assassinated during a wedding feast, as you know. I have unearthed references in a treatise which claims that
maati
was a dish beloved of the Thessalians. As you are aware, the Thessalians have a reputation for being the most sumptuous of all Greek peoples.'

‘I suppose you'd come with me to Truna's if we could eat a
maati
there?'

‘Do you mark what I say? All you think about's food! I have made a contribution to learning this day, and you want to eat at Truna's. Caylus is just as bad. You won't always be young, you know! You won't always be able to dine at Truna's.' He looked angry. His hands shook, and he wiped his brow with the hem of his cloak. For an instant he closed his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

‘I often can't afford to eat at Truna's.'

I saw how pale his skin was. It glistened. Skirting his books, I placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘You need a cup of wine, Father. Sit down. Let me ring for the housekeeper. Later, I'll fetch Katie over.'

‘No, no, I'll not disturb the woman – she may be busy. And don't trouble Katie. So you worked all morning, did you? And what did you achieve?' He brushed his hair back shakily from his forehead. ‘Katie will be busy too, make sure of that.'

‘I was intending to tell you. De Lambant's sister, Smarana, is to marry in less than a month, and we are to perform a comedy for the nuptials. I shall play the chief role of Albrizzi, and this morning, after days of search, I discovered –'

‘Truna's? Why do you suddenly mention him? Old Truna is dead this twelvemonth, and his tavern sold. That shows how often you come to visit your father. You prattle on about performing comedies and all the time Truna is one with historic personages!'

‘Father, Philip of the Macedonians was assassinated, yet people are still marrying. Come down the street with me and enjoy the bustle of humanity as you used to do – it may set your mind on more cheerful things.'

‘They're still playing
Albrizzi
, are they? By the bones of Desport, that farce was old forty years ago, when I first saw it! What's a more cheerful thing than
maati
? They had good actors in those days. Why should you think I would enjoy being jostled in the alleys, with my calculus troubling me?'

I moved over to the shuttered window and peered into our inner court, where an ornamental Triton no longer blew a fountain from his conch. Times had truly changed since my mother's death. Once there had been peacocks strutting among her lavender beds.

‘We shall insert topical matter into the play, Father, as no doubt they did in your young day. If not the tavern and not the street, then at least take a turn in the garden. The air's so stale here.'

‘No, no, the air's pure in here, guaranteed so. All sorts of illnesses lurk outside. I don't even let Beppolo enter now, for fear he contaminates the place. When you get old, you have to take care of yourself. No one else will do it for you.'

‘Did you hear that de Lambant's sister is to be wed to a gentleman from Vamonal, Father? He comes of the military house of Orini.'

‘Beppolo says the well's run dry. I've never heard of the Orinis. If he's not lying then it's the first time that ever happened – in your mother's day, we had water aplenty. Everything seems to go wrong. Who are the Orinis, I'd like to know! Bankers, or such-like.'

‘The well often runs dry at this time of year, but I'll see to it on my way out.'

‘You're off already, are you? You never told me what you've been up to. Well, I suppose there's nothing to keep you here.'

He went over and sat in his battered, leather chair, heavily carved with mythical beasts and lizards. ‘Yes, I saw
Albrizzi
as a student – thin stuff as I remember. And you wanted a shirt for it? You've been working this morning, eh? What were you working at, I'd like to know. Why don't you become a proper tragic actor, eh?'

I moved towards the door, saying, ‘There's no taste for tragedy in this age, Father. It's decadent, as I'm sure you'll agree.'

‘You should become a tragic actor. As long as there's tragedy in life, tragedy is needed on the stage. You see, the housekeeper doesn't always come when you ring – it's the way with housekeepers nowadays. Actors should hold a mirror up to nature, and not just indulge triviality. I don't know what the world's coming to …'

‘Why, the world goes on for ever the same, Father. We have a Supreme Council in Malacia to ensure it.'

‘I don't know about going on for ever. We have reason to believe that there has been change in the world, dramatic change, before now, and that there will be change again. What do you mean, no taste for tragedy? Why, in my young day … Listen, I'm now coming in my great
Disquisition on Disquisitions
to the Disquisition on the Origins of the Modern World.'

My honoured father had brought up – or perhaps one should say tumbled over – the subject of his life's work, a serious study of absolutely everything. I believe it was his questioning of the plainest fact until it crumbled into dust which had determined me, even as a mere child, that the stage was the only reality. I relinquished my grasp of the door handle, pleased that I could so unaffectedly show resignation.

‘If you've reached the beginning of the world, your book must be nearly at an end.'

‘How's that? As you must know – after all, the matter was apparent to Alexander – magical lore has it that there were several rival strains of man in the prehistoric world. We know of at least three:
homo simius
, anthropoid man, and
homo saurus
, meaning us. Plus other strains here and there of lesser import upon the globe. Now,
homo saurus
is infinitely the oldest strain, dating clear from the early Secondary Life Era, whereas the
simii
and the anthropoids are several hundred million years our juniors. Moreover, our kind began cold-blooded, created in the image of the Prince of Darkness –'

‘Father, this old pedantic rubbish is not –'

‘The image of the Prince of Darkness … You young coxcombs, you care nothing for learning! It was different in my young day … But, setting that by … pedantic rubbish, indeed! It has well been divined by the scholars that our world is only one of a number of alchemaically conceivable worlds. In some other worlds of possibility, to take an extreme case,
homo saurus
may have been wiped out entirely – say at the great battle of Itssobeshiquetzilaha, over three million, one thousand and seven hundred years ago. The result would be a nightmare world in which one of the other human races had supremacy and Malacia never existed …'

Supremacy, I thought! In this, my home, I'd never been near even equality.

Taking leave of my father, I quitted the chamber and walked along the corridor. From its panels came an aroma of something like resin which took me back to those years when I depended entirely on the good humour of others. I quickened my pace.

As I crossed the court, Beppolo emerged from an empty stable, hurrying round-shouldered to see me out of the gate, his right hand already thrusting itself forward, cupped in a receiving attitude.

‘Your illustrious father is cheerful this morning, Perry sir! As well he might be, according to his prosperous station. He tells me he has detected who Philip of Macedon is, to his great benefit!'

‘Where's the housekeeper?'

‘Why, sir, is she not in the house? No? Then perhaps she has gone out. There's little for her to do. If she's not in the house, depend on it she has gone out.'

‘And I suppose that if she has not gone out, then she is in the house?'

‘You could very likely be right, Perry sir.'

‘Be sure to tell her I shall be back tomorrow. I shall expect to see the house cleaned and a proper meal set before my father. Else there will be trouble. Understand?'

‘Every word, sir, as sure as I stand here wearing my old patched breeches.' He bowed low and dragged the gate open. I tossed him a sequin. The gate squealed closed again; its lock clicked as I made down the street. My father was safe with his researches.

The bells of St Marco's chimed one of the afternoon. A pack of ragged children were teasing a chick-snake against a wall. The little yellow-and-red creature stood waving its hands defensively and barked like a gruff dog – a habit it had learned from the local mongrels. Several of the smaller kinds of ancestral animal, wandering in from the wilderness, had come to an alliance with the canine inhabitants of Malacia. Chick-snakes and grab-skeeters, which were good climbers, were particularly common. I chased the urchins away and headed past Truna's for a cheaper tavern.